


Kintsugi

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21547129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Seven mini fics focusing on Tarn and Deathsaurus, including a first story where Tarn lets Deathsaurus see under his mask; and a final story where Deathsaurus lets Tarn see the truth about him.
Relationships: Deathsaurus/Tarn
Comments: 37
Kudos: 137





	1. Mask/Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of mini-fics written for Tarnsaurus Week 2019 in response to the daily prompts. Some of them are looks into the characters’ heads during MTMTE 39, while others take place in a nebulous post-39 world where they are in a romantic relationship. There’s no specific continuity between the mini-fics. Some of them could be considered canon to the series “On My Dark and Lonely Side,” but not all of them: Mask/Wings is an alternate look at Tarn taking his mask off. There’s no need to read that series to understand the fics here though.
> 
> Each prompt involved a pair of words and a quote. Sometimes I used only one of the words to inspire my piece, sometimes both, and sometimes the quote.
> 
> As with most of my choices for fandom events, the collection is PG-13 rated so a wider audience can enjoy it. It contains canon-typical violence and gore, romantic elements, and references to torture.
> 
> The collection is named after the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. It’s my hope that these fragments will also come together to form something beautiful.

Mask/Wings 

Deathsaurus picked up the mask from the end table, turning it over gently in his hands. 

Tarn pulled the covers up to his chin and tried to pretend he didn’t care about his partner’s curiosity. Of course the game was up the moment Deathsaurus looked up at him. His worry was probably written all over his face. 

Funny. He’d been able to control his original face just fine. Stand up on a stage and school his expression into whatever the role required. It would be easy to blame the empurata, but maybe he was just out of practice after relying on the mask for so long. 

Deathsaurus carefully returned the mask to the table and rolled back into the berth. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I wear it?” Tarn inquired, and wondered when he’d started adopting Deathsaurus’s mannerisms. He just wanted to get this horrible conversation over with. 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “Figured either you’ll tell me, or you won’t.” 

Tarn’s optics narrowed with suspicion. There was no way the Warworld commander wasn’t curious. “Or you think you’ll just go digging in my files for the answer.” 

“I’d be surprised if it was in there.” Deathsaurus curled onto his side, leaning over Tarn, looking down into his unmasked face. “The _real_ secrets don’t get written in files. Don’t get spoken out loud. Don’t even get _thought_ about all that often, on the off chance someone like Soundwave or Sunder is around.” Deathsaurus tilted his head. “If you’d been fool enough to write it down, I would likely have found it already.” 

He wasn’t wrong. “But you’re not going to ask me.” 

“I’m sure everyone does.” Deathsaurus smiled. “Everyone who has nothing left to lose.” He stretched his wings, flaring them out like a canopy over the berth. “I still have something to lose,” he added with a wink that made Tarn think he wasn’t talking about his crew. 

Tarn sighed. “It’s not the reason you’d think.” 

“You mean desiring to lose your original identity under a persona that Megatron created?” 

Deathsaurus was terrifyingly perceptive. Tarn winced. “I asked for that.” 

“So I guessed correctly.” Deathsaurus reached over under the covers, caught Tarn’s hand in his, and twined their fingers together. 

It would be the easiest thing to hold his tongue and let Deathsaurus believe a partial truth. 

Tarn drew a deep breath. Deathsaurus deserved better. 

“That’s not the entire reason,” he admitted. 

Deathsaurus cocked an optic ridge, but Tarn noticed that once again he didn’t ask for an explanation. “I could change the subject right now and you’d let it go, wouldn’t you?” 

“Trust can’t be given on demand,” Deathsaurus replied. 

Tarn could fill in the rest himself. _You either trust me, or you don’t_. 

Then Tarn realized that, actually, he _did_ trust his partner. 

“It’s because…” Tarn drew in a ragged breath. “Because I didn’t want anyone to know how absolutely _squeamish_ I can be about some of the things my colleagues do…some of the things Megatron ordered me to do.” He bowed his head in shame. “By Primus, this is embarrassing.” 

“But you did them anyway,” Deathsaurus said softly. 

“It was what Megatron expected of me,” Tarn replied, realizing as he did so that he had no idea what Deathsaurus expected of him, no notion of how to play the role that his partner wanted. 

“I’m honoured you trusted me with that,” Deathsaurus murmured, and Tarn understood, to his wonderment, that all Deathsaurus wanted from him was the truth. 


	2. Music/History

Music/History 

_Set during MTMTE 39_

Deathsaurus bit down on his back teeth and tried to keep his temper as Tarn warmed up to his monologue about the early days of the Decepticon movement. 

What, did Tarn think that Deathsaurus couldn’t be bothered to learn about the badge he wore? That he’d be content to fight the Autobots without even knowing why? Deathsaurus seethed. Maybe Tarn just thought he’d never bothered to learn to read in the past two million years. 

Really, Deathsaurus ought to be happy about this turn of events. Tarn, like so many other erstwhile commanders before him, was underestimating Deathsaurus. Underestimation was so very often fatal. 

While Tarn chattered, Deathsaurus had time to think. He was certain that Lyzack was already hard at work to block Tarn from their inter-Decepticon radio. But Deathsaurus had no idea how long it might take for her to lock in on Tarn’s personal frequency and enact countermeasures. He ought to think of a contingency plan. Some way to keep himself from falling to Tarn’s audial assault before he could rip the DJD commander’s spark from his chest. He should be grateful that Tarn was fool enough to monologue while he had the advantage. 

But for some reason, all Deathsaurus could feel was _insulted_. For once in his life it might have been nice for another warlord to treat him like an equal, instead of like some dumb beast that had fallen into its rank purely by accident. 

It would be nice to be given the benefit of the doubt where _respect_ was concerned. 

And all of this was foolish, and Deathsaurus knew it, because he needed an advantage in the coming fight far more than he needed Tarn’s _respect._

For most of his life, Deathsaurus had ignored what he desired in exchange for what his crew needed. His people were in more danger now than they’d been in the past two million years, what with the DJD _right here_ on his Warworld. Yet what was he doing? Feeling put out that Tarn was speaking down to him. 

_Why do you care in the slightest what Tarn thinks of you?_

The spines on the back of Deathsaurus’s neck prickled with warning. No, it wasn’t like him to concern himself with others’ opinions of him. The only people whose thoughts mattered to him were his crew, his _family_. People he _liked…_

Deathsaurus felt a sudden sickening realization as he caught himself ogling Tarn’s profile with his upper optics while schooling his lower ones into an obedient expression of attentiveness. 

_You can’t possibly be attracted to him, you absolute maniac. You utter beast._

Deathsaurus drew in a ragged breath. 

_What, you think you can seduce him before he kills your crew? You?_

Deathsaurus prided himself on his self-awareness. He knew full well that _seduction_ was not a weapon in his arsenal. At least, not one he’d used before. 

He asked a few questions. Kept Tarn talking. Hated the way his spark leapt when Tarn proposed an alliance. 

_We_ . 

What could he and Tarn be, together? 

Then he thought of his crew. 

His own desires were nothing next to the welfare of his crew. If there was to be any future in this alliance, Deathsaurus had to know that his people were safe around the DJD. Would Tarn ever understand the kind of loyalty and trust that Deathsaurus needed? 

_Well, there’s one way to find out._

A hideous idea came to Deathsaurus’s mind. One that would grant him either the alliance of his hopes, or a quick and bloody end to the Decepticon Justice Division. 

“I have one further condition,” Deathsaurus said, “but first I need you to disengage from the network.” 

Tarn did so. 

Deathsaurus was ready for either of Tarn’s possible responses. His spark swirled brightly, twin hungers warring inside it. Frag Tarn, or kill him? 

_Victory either way._

Deathsaurus’s lips curled into a predatory smile. He leaned close to Tarn’s audio, inhaling a whiff of the mech’s intoxicating scent, and whispered, “Kill your team.” 


	3. Mercy/Victory

Mercy/Victory 

Deathsaurus’s rise to fame had been nothing short of meteoric. It amused him that Leozack seemed more excited about it than he was. Then again, Leozack’s excitement might be due to the prestige that came from being a rising star’s second in command. 

Victory after victory, and promotion after promotion, had Deathsaurus climbing the ranks until he found himself in the company of warlords. 

Truthfully, Deathsaurus had not wanted to become a general. He’d accepted promotions for two reasons. The first, and most important, was that his rank could protect his crew. There were too many avaricious commanders who wanted to use his people as cannon fodder. As a ranking officer himself, he could plan their missions to minimize casualities. 

The other reason—Deathsaurus’s personal reward—was far fewer idiots who saw fit to try to tell him what to do. 

But then Deathsaurus’s career stalled. He was captain of a Warworld, but he got turned down for admiral. That honour went to Trannis. He was nominated for a seat on the Triumverate, but Thunderwing got it. Leozack stormed through the corridors of the Warworld each time, calling Thunderwing a cheater, saying Trannis didn’t deserve it. 

Deathsaurus could not bring himself to care overly much. If Megatron thought he was overly cautious, perhaps he was. It was a simple difference of values. Deathsaurus’s number one priority was protecting his crew. Completing missions was of secondary importance. If Megatron didn’t like it, he could demote him. 

Deathsaurus had not been prepared for Megatron’s idea of a demotion. A suicide mission for both himself and his crew. 

Once he understood the situation, Deathsaurus had not had any qualms whatsoever about the proper response. 

# 

“I wish you could have seen it,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus recalled, with some amusement, the last time Tarn had discussed this topic with him. It had been shortly after his arrival on the Warworld, where he’d seen fit to grace Deathsaurus with a history lesson. 

Tonight was a good deal more personal. They sat on a rocky ledge overlooking a cyberformed landscape, and Tarn had been telling Deathsaurus about the roles that he himself had played in the early days of the Great Cybertronian War. 

Tarn, like many other older Decepticons, spoke nostalgically of those days. Deathsaurus supposed he could see why. After Functionist repression, to see the Decepticon movement succeeding—to help it to succeed—must have been an inspiring experience. It would have given those Decepticons a feeling like they could do anything if only they set their minds to it. 

By the time Deathsaurus was born, the war had stagnated into a battle of attrition, the Autobots and Decepticons bogged down on a thousand fronts. Centuries would go by without a single shot being fired, yet the constant uneasy tension of hostilities just waiting to erupt at the slightest sign of weakness or the most minute suggestion of aggression on either side wore on everyone’s nerves. Deathsaurus had won his accolades for being one of the few who could break the stalemate, mostly due to his penchant for doing the unexpected. 

“I think a mech could drive himself crazy wishing,” Deathsaurus mused. “ _What if_ this, _what if_ that. It’s easy to get lost in the hypothetical and overlook the reality in front of you.” 

“This reality isn’t particularly glorious,” Tarn said dryly. Yes, the planet had been beautifully cyberformed, but it was empty. There were no people living here. 

“I was told the Empire would send colonists,” Deathsaurus said quietly. “Is that true? Were they all given guns and sent to fight instead of settle? Is that why they never arrived—because the Autobots killed them all? Or was that image of a thousand miniature Cybertrons strung together like jewels in a necklace nothing more than a pretty picture designed to inspire troops like me and mine? Was Megatron’s real goal to wipe out whatever lived here?” 

“Pfft.” Tarn tilted his head. “Truth be told, I honestly don’t know.” 

“I didn’t need the pretty lie.” 

Tarn laughed at that. “What, _you_ would have done it just because Megatron told you to? Why don’t I believe that?” 

“No, I would have done it because my troops need a mission.” Deathsaurus pressed his lips together, watching his words. “You know they’re soldiers. You know how… _agitated_ they get when they’re cooped up on the Warworld too long. No outlet for their aggression. They’re not suited for civilian life. They can’t adapt.” 

_I tried_ . 

Maybe someday, Deathsaurus would admit to Tarn that he’d tried. That the Warworld’s current crew were those of his people who’d failed to assimilate to a life of peace on the planets they’d cyberformed. 

Deathsaurus could hardly judge them for that. 

After all, he was one of them. 


	4. Beauty/War

Beauty/War 

Tarn was never sure how he should look on these diplomatic missions. What did aliens consider appropriate for the occasion? Tarn thought it would be garish to do himself up in sparkle wax as though he were going to a gala ball, but would plain polish be seen as careless and insulting? 

Tarn held up a bottle of pearlescent coating. “What do you think? Too much, or just pretty enough?” 

“Don’t ask me,” Deathsaurus said casually. He’d given himself a simple holographic shine, nothing more. “You know I’m always hideous.” He glanced in the mirror, flashing his reflection a fang-filled smirk. 

“Pfft,” Tarn retorted. “Fishing for compliments, are we?” 

Deathsaurus snapped his head around to stare at Tarn after a four-optic blink. 

Tarn felt his fuel pump skip a beat. He’d come to recognize the _cultural disconnect_ look when Deathsaurus realized that they weren’t communicating clearly with one another. 

“You don’t really think,” Tarn said carefully, “that you’re ugly…do you?” 

“I don’t have to think,” Deathsaurus said steadily. “I _know._ It’s very clear to me that not only do I _not_ meet Cybertronian beauty standards—or Decepticon standards, for that matter—but my other shape is considered _extremely_ off-putting. Honestly, I don’t know how an art connoisseur such as yourself puts up with looking at me on a daily basis. I probably offend most of your aesthetic sensibilities.” The cruel words came off Deathsaurus’s tongue in a bizarrely neutral, matter-of-fact way. 

“So you believe you’re horrible-looking, and you aren’t hurt by that?” 

“Why would I be?” Deathsaurus replied. “It’s not my _fault_ I’m ugly, so I refuse to accept responsibility for it. It’s not a personal failing. It’s an accident of my creation. Anyone who doesn’t like the sight of me is welcome not to look at me.” He lifted his head proudly, as though he were revelling in his ability to horrify everyone he came across. 

Something about it wrenched at Tarn’s spark. 

“It’s simply a fact,” Deathsaurus said. “Something I have to be aware of when I cross the thresholds of businesses with _no beastformers_ placards in the windows. But I’m not going to cry hurt feelings over the _truth_ when the alternative is a pretty lie that might get me or my crew killed.” 

Like the fights that would break out when Deathsaurus flouted the _no beastformers_ house rules, Tarn guessed. When Deathsaurus crossed those lines, he would do so prepared for battle. 

Deathsaurus was also not wrong about beauty standards. The pre-war society had gone in big for streamlining. Sleek flyers and aerodynamic speedsters were the pinnacle of beauty. The Decepticons, of course, had sought to upend the old social order. Decepticons saw appeal in the powerful frames of labourers and the sheer force wielded by military hardware. Deathsaurus fit into neither category. 

Yet Tarn realized that he liked looking at his partner. “Well, I think you’re quite striking.” 

Deathsaurus’s left lip pulled back in a crooked smile. “Really,” he said, sounding unconvinced. 

Tarn held his gaze. 

The smirk collapsed. “You truly mean that,” Deathsaurus said warily. 

“Yes. If we’re going to be blunt, you’re correct…you’re not classically attractive. But you should know some art critics have posited it’s better to be handsome than beautiful. Beauty causes an instinctive attraction, unconscious and…” 

Tarn caught himself before saying _animal._

“Primitive,” he said instead. “Handsomeness, on the other hand, is visually interesting. It attracts the gaze because it commands attention. Intellectually challenging, too, to understand the aesthetic appeal in something unconventional.” 

Deathsaurus changed shape, as though he couldn’t bear not to provoke Tarn further. “How’s this for unconventional?” he demanded. 

Tarn reached out and caught Deathsaurus’s beak in one hand. Lifted his mask with the other. Placed a kiss on the horn on the tip of Deathsaurus’s beak. 

He would rise to Deathsaurus’s challenge. 


	5. Crime/Confession

Crime/Confession 

Damus was brought before the Magistrate in chains. 

_They can’t do anything to me_ , he thought over and over again, hoping he’d eventually believe it. _I haven’t done anything wrong._

But a terrible notion tickled the base of his brain. Wasn’t there a new law going through the Senate—one that would declare the Decepticons an illegal terrorist organization? If it was now a crime to identify as a Decepticon, Damus would… 

_Would nothing. I haven’t got my badge yet. There’s no proof that I’m a Decepticon._

Damus wished he’d paid a bit more attention to the news coming out of Iacon. Lately he’d found himself spending most of his free time re-reading _Towards Peace_. There were complex levels of nuance in the work that weren’t readily apparent in the first few readings. One needed to become familiar with the concepts and meditate on the deeper symbolism for the true meaning to become apparent. 

_Surely it’s not a crime to associate with Deceptions. They might suspect me, but there’s no proof._

“Damus of Tarn, you have been found guilty,” the Magistrate declared. 

Damus’s jaw dropped. “But...I haven’t even spoken to my lawyer!”   
The Magistrate chuckled. “Do you think this is a matter for the courts?” He smiled, showing entirely too many teeth. “If you weren’t guilty, you would never have been brought here.” 

“Then if I’m not here for a trial, why am I here?” Damus tried to sound tougher than he felt. 

“Why, for your _sentence_ , of course.” 

Even as Damus’s fuel tank sank, an unexpected spark of rage ignited in his chest. His hands itched, burned, as though his talent had decided of its own volition to put itself to use. 

Yet he hesitated. It was one thing to break machinery—another to break _people_. He could permanently injure someone. Maybe even kill them. Usually he disarmed enemies by targeting their weapons and equipment. But the big guards on either side of him weren’t carrying weapons. 

Was he really ready to kill someone? 

Damus hesitated, dithering, and that hesitation was his undoing. 

Three steps to a door at the side of the chamber. Four steps to an operating slab. Restraints clicked shut on his wrists, his ankles. 

Damus decided too late that his talent was justifiable force. He sent a pulse of energy running through the table. He heard the moving parts break. 

But the cuffs were still stuck in the “closed” position. 

Damus struggled. He just needed to force the cuffs open and he’d be ready to deal with his captors. Just a little more…a little more… 

The technician, Lobe, had leaned over him with a stun gun at the ready. 

_A little more_ was a little too far. 

Damus hit the table writhing, feeling sparks spray from his joints. 

“I’m afraid,” Lobe said with a sinister grin, “you’re going to have to _face_ the consequences of what you’ve done.” 

He held something up for Damus to see. It was small and round and yellow. An optic. A very rudimentary optic. 

With his last conscious thought, Damus realized what it meant. 

He opened his mouth to scream. 

While he still could. 

#   
  


Then he _was_ screaming, long and loud. There was someone big holding him down. Damus summoned all his power to his fingertips and delivered a full jolt straight into the side of the big guard looming over him. 

“Fragging _Pit_ , Tarn!” the guard exclaimed in a familiar voice with an Outer Rim accent so thick that Damus of Tarn ought to have trouble understanding the words, save for the fact that the voice was surprisingly familiar. “Wake _up_!” 

Damus of Tarn sat up and felt four million years of history settle over him in a rush. He was in a berth with… 

“Deathsaurus!” Tarn realized with a sinking feeling what he’d done. “Are you all right?” 

“I’ll heal,” Deathsaurus quipped. 

Tarn noticed the way his left wing sagged. Yes, he’d heal, but he couldn’t be comfortable. “I’m sorry,” Tarn said quietly, not used to making apologies. 

“Must have been one hell of a nightmare,” Deathsaurus said. 

Tarn felt unspeakably grateful for his…what were they? _Ally_ seemed such a poor word. Deathsaurus was willing to forgive him so easily for something he’d done unintentionally, even though he was still suffering the effects. 

“Yes,” Tarn admitted. He felt ashamed to confess that he, the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, experienced night terrors. 

Deathsaurus cocked an optic ridge but said nothing. Tarn knew what that meant. Deathsaurus was willing to listen, if Tarn was willing to speak. 

Tarn drew a deep breath and leaned against his courtmate’s side. “If you ever wondered where I learned my trade,” he said slowly, “it was simple. All I had to do was find a way to replicate the pain and fear I felt in the empurata chamber.” 

Deathsaurus’s wing slowly furled around Tarn’s shoulder. 


	6. Control/Compromise

Control/Compromise 

_Set immediately after MTMTE 39_

Deathsaurus’s words echoed in Tarn’s head as he settled down on his recharge slab on the _Peaceful Tyranny._

“I needed to get the measure of you, Tarn.” 

Classical artworks often depicted Solomus, the embodiment of wisdom, holding a weighting scale in his hand—a metaphor for determining the measure of guilt. It was Tarn, leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, who was charged with taking the measure of all Decepticons. 

How _dare_ Deathsaurus declare himself fit to perform such an action on _Tarn_? 

Tarn wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: the fact that he had been subjected to a test and evaluation, or the fact that Deathsaurus thought nothing of positioning himself as the proctor. As if Deathsaurus was the law on this Warworld. As if Tarn was in someone else’s jurisdiction now. 

No. As long as Deathsaurus and his crew wore those purple badges, _Tarn_ was the one in authority. 

But Tarn felt uneasy. 

_Was he truly so out of line? He needed to know he could trust you. That’s not such an unreasonable requirement. He has a crew to protect. You’re fully aware of your reputation for not making deals and not leaving survivors._

_Partnerships are about being equal, aren’t they? It’s not as though you didn’t evaluate him too._

Tarn remembered all the long evenings he’d spent going through the files he’d inherited from Banzai-Tron. He knew exactly what he needed: a surviving Decepticon with strength enough to face off against Megatron, and weakness enough to bend to Tarn’s command. He thought he’d chosen carefully. Deathsaurus, in addition to being a powerful fighter himself, had an army of hundreds, a Warworld with a battle fleet, and best of all, a huge vulnerability in the form of his devotion to his crew. 

Now Tarn had a terrible feeling that he’d failed to grasp the full extent of the situation he was getting into. Perhaps he should have spent some more time digging for Sixshot’s weaknesses instead… 

_Too late now, Tarn. Deathsaurus has your measure._

_And you don’t have his anywhere near as accurately as you’d thought._

There was no way Tarn was going to fall into recharge any time soon. He sat up in the berth, thinking. 

Tarn hated to admit he’d never seriously considered that he would be entering into anything like an equal partnership. 

No, he’d expected that whoever he spared from the List would be so grateful that he’d fall into line without question. Tarn had steeled himself to endure a certain amount of fawning. He’d not prepared at all for a mechanism who’d take him at his word and hold him to an actual alliance. 

_So, now what? Kill Deathsaurus, and try again with Trannis, or Sixshot, or Onslaught?_

_Or learn to compromise?_

Tarn had a terrible feeling killing Deathsaurus wouldn’t be anywhere near as easy as it would have been when he’d had Kaon hack the Warworld’s inter-Decepticon radio. If Deathsaurus was anywhere near what his reputation suggested, he would have already had his people patch that particular vulnerability. 

No, terminating Deathsaurus now would be a catastrophic problem. Finding and co-opting another warlord would be a second, equally challenging problem. Like it or not, he was stuck with Deathsaurus for the duration and that meant finding a way to make this alliance work. 

_Kill your team_ . Deathsaurus’s words echoed inside Tarn’s head. Primus, but Tarn was glad he hadn’t listened. Not only would he have had to betray and massacre his colleagues, but then he would have been massacred in turn by Deathsaurus and his crew. 

Tarn stared down at his hands. Immaculately polished, as always. But Tarn knew how much blood those hands had spilled over the centuries. 

He wanted… _needed…_ to punish Megatron so badly, he’d almost forgotten that there were some prices that should never be paid. He didn’t want to think about how close he’d come to trading his team’s lives for an alliance. 

How close he’d come to failing Deathsaurus’s test. 


	7. Restraint/Reward

Restraint/Reward 

Tarn had never had much of an appetite for waiting. Deathsaurus knew this full well. He walked across the Warworld’s hangar towards the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , covered head to toe in gore, wondering if Tarn had started on tonight’s bottle of engex without him. Wondering if Tarn would be appalled at the sight of him. 

Deathsaurus had spent the better part of the evening dealing with an irate space station operator who’d taken sudden, unexpected offense to the Warworld’s presence in their system. Deathsaurus had called Tarn to let him know he’d be late, but then the alien had called up a squadron of armed security. 

Or, what Deathsaurus liked to call _an excuse._

Because Deathsaurus was a predator at heart. Those who believed in Primus would describe him as a beast perfectly engineered to hunt, kill, and feed. Those who didn’t believe in divinity would have to call Deathsaurus an accident of evolution that conquered a niche at the top of the food chain. 

Deathsaurus wanted more to life than just hunting and eating. His crew, for instance. His crew gave him a motivation in life beyond his own survival. A reason for his continued existence. Every day he fought to rein in his more bestial impulses so he could care for his people as they deserved to be cared for. 

But Deathsaurus knew full well that most mechanisms would be appalled by his hungers, nor would they trust Deathsaurus to keep those appetites under control. It was better not to speak of such things. Better to wait for opportunities such as this one, when an outsider had dared threaten his crew, to unleash the beast. 

Now the threat had been conclusively eliminated, and Deathsaurus’s feral urges were pleasantly satiated. He could now turn his thoughts to what other urges he might be able to sate tonight. 

Assuming Tarn let him in. 

Deathsaurus began to have second thoughts. Perhaps he should stop by a wash station and sluice off before knocking on Tarn’s door. He didn’t exactly look like the kind of elegant mech that Tarn would fancy. 

A contrary, stubborn streak lanced like fire through Deathsaurus’s spark. To the Pit with it. What was the good of a relationship where he had to pretend to be something he wasn’t? Sooner or later Tarn was going to have to come to terms with the monster he was courting. 

No time like the present. 

Deathsaurus knocked on Tarn’s door before he lost his nerve, and a moment later cursed himself for trying to provoke his own courtmate. 

The door opened. Tarn stood there, glass of engex in hand, but beyond him, on the table, the bottle was still mostly full. 

A gobbet of gore oozed off the edge of Deathsaurus’s wing and landed with a plop on his foot. 

“I’m sorry,” Deathsaurus blurted. “The encounter got…ugly. I’ll go scrub up and…” 

Tarn tilted his head. “Are you injured? Is your crew well?” 

Deathsaurus felt his spark warm. Tarn had asked about his crew. 

“My crew are all fine,” Deathsaurus said. “Minor injuries only. As for me, none of this blood is mine.” 

Deathsaurus’s fuel tank churned. He’d _done_ it again. Acted like a dirty animal, scared people. And this time it was his own courtmate he was scaring. Why did he have to be like this? 

If he could control the urge to hunt and kill that shadowed his thoughts every waking hour—if he could manage not to pounce on his own crew—why couldn’t he take it one step further and hide his true nature from others? 

“You look like you had a good time,” Tarn said mildly. “Would you like to come in and wash that off?” 

“In there?” Deathsaurus was surprised. 

“I suppose you could go somewhere else, but…” Tarn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There are some things that are just _unseemly_ to do in a public wash station.” 

Deathsaurus’s wings snapped open. “You’d…?” 

“Not if you don’t come in,” Tarn purred. 

Deathsaurus promptly stepped inside. Tarn shut the door behind him. 

“I mean, you don’t mind?” Deathsaurus stammered. “How I got into this condition?” 

Tarn turned with a chuckle. “I’m the commander of the _Decepticon Justice Division_ and you think I’m going to be put off by a little gore?” 

Deathsaurus blinked. 

Right. 

There was that. 

“You’re a predator,” Tarn continued, “rather like each and every member of my team. It’s not something I find shocking any more.” 

Deathsaurus took a deep breath. “I just…I’m supposed to be appalling. Make people uncomfortable.” 

“Your crew aren’t uncomfortable.” 

“They trust me not to hurt them.” 

“As do I,” Tarn murmured. 

There was still a little voice murmuring in the back of Deathsaurus’s lizard brain. A voice that told him right now, Tarn’s throat cables were one quick flick away from his claws. Deathsaurus told it firmly that no, he wouldn’t be acting on that. 

Then he let go of the guilt. 

He would not hate himself because of his _thoughts_. He would be judged by his _actions_ alone. Today, he _chose_ not to hurt his own courtmate. He _chose_ to protect his crew. 

“So let’s clean you up,” Tarn suggested, “and see where the night takes us.” 

Deathsaurus, grateful, put his hand in Tarn’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #
> 
> With much thanks to Helenadorf for organizing Tarnsaurus Week 2019!


End file.
